Some Other Beginning's End: Jim's Perspective
by kenina
Summary: Jim prepares physically and emotionally to return to work.


**Title: **Some Other Beginning's End Part II

**Disclaimer: **All things Blind Justice belong to Steven Bochco Productions. No copyright infringement intended.

**Rating: **PG

**Spoilers: **Set just before the Pilot episode.

**Summary: **Jim prepares physically and emotionally to return to work.

**Author's Note: **I wrote this as two separate posts in a Blind Justice group fanfiction project, but since I've left that group, I've decided to repost them here as a sequel of sorts to "Some Other Beginning's End." Enjoy!

* * *

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The synthesized, choppy computer voice continued to drone on, but Jim tuned it out as a sound from behind him captured his attention. When he realized the sound was Christie's key in the lock, he hit a combination keystroke that silenced the computer, then swiveled around in the dining room chair and looked up to greet her, forcing a smile through the frustration he felt.

"Hey," Christie said as she closed the door behind her. "How's it going?"

Jim made a face. "Not great. Something's wrong with the internet connection. Can you take a look at the settings?"

"Jimmy, you know I'm not a techie," Christie protested as she dropped her small handbag and keys on the entrance hall table.

"You just tell me what's on the screen and I'll do the rest," he insisted.

"Isn't that why the city bought you that fancy software?" she asked as she started to shrug off her jacket. "I thought you were working on that today."

"Yeah, I went through the tutorial and started learning the keyboard shortcuts," he replied. "But it's slow going. Eyes are a lot faster."

"Well, you won't have me at work with you, so maybe you better figure it out on your own."

Jim's mouth twisted into a hard line. "You know, I don't need that from you right now," he snapped, standing and moving away from the dining room table, hands stretched in front of him. He made it to one of the chairs at the island counter, and gripped the back railing tightly.

Christie sighed, then hung her jacket on the coatrack and went over to Jim, laying a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'll help you figure it out, but can we do it after dinner? I have to change, and then we have to go, or we're going to be late."

Jim nodded. "That's fine." He thought about leaning in to kiss her, but the tension in the air between them made him think better of it, and he just stood there as she dropped her hand and continued on into the bedroom.

"So, just one more day at home, huh?" Christie called from the bedroom, her voice muffled by whatever clothing she was removing or putting on.

"Yeah," Jim answered, wandering into the bedroom. He was already dressed to go out, in a pair of black pants and a dark red high-necked pullover, but was wearing only socks. He went into the closet and came out a moment later wearing a pair of black loafers and a black leather jacket.

"Lookin' good," Christie said admiringly.

Jim smiled. "What are you wearing?"

"Just jeans and a white button-down shirt. Wanna feel me up?" she teased.

"Maybe _after_ dinner," Jim said. He didn't have to put his hands on her to know that despite her casual description, Christie was probably wearing expensive designer jeans that looked like they belonged on a runway, and a similar quality shirt.

Thirty minutes later, they were walking into a restaurant in Little Italy. "There's Walter," Christie said after a moment. "He's already got us a table." To the maitre'd, she said, "We're with that man over there."

"Of course. Follow me." When they reached the table, Walter boomed, "Jimmy, Christie, good to see you."

Christie put Jim's hand on the back of his chair, and Jim pulled it out, then stuck his hand in Walter's direction. "Good to see you, too, Walter. Glad you could make it tonight."

After they shook hands, Jim heard a smack that could only have been Walter planting a fatherly kiss on his wife's cheek, and then they all sat. "Had to give you the scoop, didn't I?" Walter asked. "So you're going to the 8th—we're in your new precinct right now."

Jim nodded. "Yeah, I looked it up online today—before the connection went out," he added in Christie's direction, then looked back toward Walter. "I know the facts. What I need to know about are the personalities."

"Are you ready to order?" They were interrupted by the appearance of a waiter at the table, and Jim heard him filling their glasses with ice water.

"I think we need a few more minutes," Walter told the man.

"Something to drink?"

Walter ordered a Coors Light in a bottle, and Jim did the same. As Christie asked for a glass of the house chardonnay, Jim found himself discreetly exploring the table in front of him, as he had become accustomed to doing, to find his silverware and glass of water, and anything else he might need to know about.

Once the waiter was gone, Walter said, "You know your lieutenant will be Gary Fisk, right?" Jim nodded, and Walter continued, "He's a good man, Jimmy. I worked with him when he was a detective at the 24th about 10 years ago."

"You think…you think he's the type who's gonna have a problem with _me_ working for him?" Jim didn't want to utter the words out loud—he didn't want to acknowledge the reality that a lot of people in the department were upset about Jim's reinstatement. But the implication was clear, and Walter picked up on it immediately.

"Ahh…it's going to be an adjustment for everyone, kid. You know that," Walter answered evasively. "But Fisk is a good guy. Even if he's tough on you at first, I think he'll come around once he sees you're going to hold your own." Walter sighed. "But you gotta give him a chance."

Jim narrowed his eyes and sat back a little in surprise. "Hey, I'm not going in there with a chip on my shoulder, if that's what you mean. But I don't expect things to be all hearts and flowers, either."

He couldn't read his friend's body language or expression, so he had to settle for waiting for the verbal response. "I'm just saying, you're just going to have to ease into it," Walter finally said, and Jim could tell he was choosing his words carefully. "You're gonna have to relax, and give 'em a chance to get used to the idea."

Jim nodded, frowning a little. "You know anything about the other homicide guys there?"

Walter didn't say anything for a moment, and Jim assumed that wasn't a good sign. Christie reached over and laid her hand on his, and that made him think that some nonverbal communication had passed between her and Walter. "We'll come back to that after we figure out what we're going to eat," Walter finally suggested.

"You know what the specials are?" Jim rarely had the patience to ask anyone to read him a menu, especially in Little Italy, where the menu usually consisted of dozens of very similar pasta dishes.

"Here comes the waiter with our drinks, so we can ask," Christie said, and a moment later, Jim heard the soft thunk of their drinks being set down on the tablecloth. "Do you have any specials?" she asked.

The waiter recited several, and Jim ordered one of them, a pork dish. His mind wandered as he vaguely heard Christie order something with angel hair and tomatoes, and Walter order lasagna. As soon as the waiter departed, Jim spoke up. "Okay, what am I in for with the other detectives?"

"Well, first, there's a young lady named Karen Bettancourt," Walter began. "She just got detective last year, and she really deserves it. She's sharp as a tack, and a real good cop, from what I can tell. Good kid—I think you'll be fine with her."

"Who else?" Jim asked brusquely.

"I didn't know the other two names, so I asked around a little," Walter began. "Tom Selway and Marty Russo. Selway was narcotics for a few years, homicide for the last few years. Black guy, mid-30s maybe, even-tempered, seems to have a decent reputation."

"Hmmm…" Jim mulled over that information. "Sounds like he could be a good partner."

"I think Selway's partnered with Russo, so I'm assuming Fisk'll put you with Karen—unless he decides to mix it up."

"Okay. Tell me about Russo."

"Type A, hardass, smartass, go-getter, standup guy—heard him called all that and more. Take your pick. He sounds like you, Jimmy, you wanna know the truth."

Jim rubbed his lower lip thoughtfully. "Me…maybe the 'me' I used to be," he mused. "Well, that's not good news. If a blind guy had joined my squad a year ago…" Jim paused, then uttered a short laugh. "I'd have given him hell."

Christie had been silent during this whole exchange, and Jim wondered what emotions were flitting across her expressive face. Finally, she piped up, putting her hand on his. "The waiter brought a pint glass. Want me to pour?"

"Nah, I'll just drink it out of the bottle," he answered. "Bet Walter's doing the same. Am I right?"

Christie laughed. "You're right," she informed him. "So, what will you do if this guy, Russo, gives you a hard time?"

"Ask him to step outside, probably," Jim said, taking a drink then smiled and raised his eyebrows mischievously in Christie's direction.

"Jimmy," she said disapprovingly, and Walter and he both chuckled.

"Just give it some time. Everybody will settle down and you'll get back to doing your thing," Walter said, sounding to Jim like a much-needed voice of reason.

"I hope you're right," Jim responded.

"Hey, why don't we walk by there after dinner, stop in, I can show you around a little, so you know where to go on Monday?"

Jim smiled. "That would be great. Thanks a lot, Walter. For everything."

* * *

Jim heaved the bar in front of him up over his head, grunting with the effort, then lowered it back down, bringing it almost, but not quite, back to a resting position before hefting it up again. By the time he'd done nine more reps, he could feel the sweat break out on his brow, and he lifted his tee shirt to mop it off. Slowly he returned the bar to a resting position, stood and moved around to the other side of the Nautilus machine, reaching his hands out in front of him to find the weights and seat for the leg press.

This was his last day on workers' comp, and he was trying to expend as much energy as possible, mostly to avoid thinking too much about what he would be walking into on Monday. He'd spent a little over a year fighting so hard to get back to something that, if he allowed the doubts to crowd his brain, he honestly wasn't sure he could do anymore. Not that he'd said that to anyone. To everyone around him—his attorney, Walter, a couple of other cop friends who'd stuck by him, and especially to Christie—Jim made a point of seeming self-assured and completely confident that he could return to his job like no time at all had passed since the day of the bank robbery. No time had passed, and nothing was different.

Except everything was different, he mused as he reached carefully back to find the weight pin and move it down. Instead of striding into the squad room swigging coffee and winking at the ladies, he'd be letting a guide dog show him the way and carrying a long, white cane hidden in his overcoat. Now his laptop read out loud to him, and he had a Braille label maker for his case files. Despite the changes, Jim _was_ reasonably sure he could still do his job. God knows he'd gone over and over it in his mind enough times, played out enough scenarios, thought about it from every angle. The way he figured, it was really going to depend on who he got for a partner. If that person was up for describing stuff, like the crime scene, and pinch-hitting for Jim in interrogations, since he could no longer give perps the famous withering Dunbar gaze that had caused many a guilty part to confess.

So, who would it be? His money was on the chick. Bettancourt, was that it? The good-old-boy syndrome was alive and well in the NYPD, and Jim assumed that the blind guy would be shoved off on the lone female in the squad. The odd ones out.

Or, maybe they'd be sexist enough to think partnering her with him would put her at risk. Decide that they had to protect both her _and_ him. But although Jim had _had_ to sue to get his job back, in truth, he wasn't one for rocking the boat. He'd decided that unless his new lieutenant refused to let him do his job—i.e., go back out on the street—he was not going to complain or file grievances against anyone if they made it hard on him. He'd been through a lot in his life—not just during the past year—and he was tough. He could handle it. And whoever they partnered him with, he'd make it work.

He snapped back to reality as he heard the gym door open, and someone else came in. Whoever it was didn't greet Jim, so he had no idea who it might be. He was using the gym in their apartment building, as he had three times a week for the last year. Before that he'd done his weightlifting and running in the squad workout room, but now he settled for using the Nautilus and going out with Christie for a jog around Brooklyn Bridge Park a couple of times a week.

A couple guys and a couple women who also used the Nautilus had introduced themselves to Jim, and greeted him when they worked out at the same time. And then there were the nameless, faceless people who refused to speak to him, either because they were too intimidated, or shy, or just ignorant, not realizing that introductions were a blind person's lifeline. When he had his sight, Jim wouldn't have expected his fellow building inhabitants to introduce themselves—he would've passed them in the hall with a nod and smile, and that would've been that. But now he got irritated whenever one of those silent people would come into the tiny gym, sit down just opposite him, and say nothing.

After finishing his bicep reps, Jim stood and headed for the door. He'd left his cane leaning there, and his towel was on a nearby ledge. Picking up both, Jim headed out without a word, leaving the faceless person behind. He was glad Walter had taken him by the workout room at his new squad and shown him where everything was—now he could start lifting there and stop coming to this tiny, airless room every day.

As for the rest of his new building, he felt pretty comfortable going in there on Monday. He didn't know the place backwards and forwards like he would've liked to—like he knew his old precinct headquarters—but he could get in the building, up the elevator, and into the squad room. What happened after that was anybody's guess. Jim was looking forward to it with equal parts apprehension and excitement.

Excitement that he'd succeeded. Right up until the last moment, he didn't think he was going win reinstatement. It had been a gamble from the beginning, and thank God it had paid off. So he was going to treasure every day on the job, no matter how trying, or tiring. It was better than the alternative—wasting away at home, collecting a disability check or, God forbid, teaching classes at the police academy. Yes, he knew all about other cops who'd been blinded and turned to teaching. But it wasn't for him. Never would be.

Apprehension at the uncertainty of how he was going to be treated, both by his colleagues and the public. Pity was something he'd have to deal with, deflect, rebuff, whatever it took. That was probably what he was most worried about...most scared of. Ever since it happened, he could feel pity coming off certain people in waves. Even Christie, at first. Most people eventually got over it, as they became more comfortable around him—but he wouldn't have that luxury with most of the people he encountered in his job. He'd have to seem tougher, more capable, less vulnerable, than he'd even been sighted, just to convince his partner, his boss, the perps on the street, and their victims that he could still be a detective. A _good_ detective.

Jim trailed a hand along the exposed brick wall as he stepped out of the elevator and walked down the hall toward his apartment, tapping his cane left, right, left again. He knew Christie was home before he'd even opened the door. Maybe he heard her muffled footsteps inside, or maybe it was the faint scent of perfume that lingered in the hallway. Jim wasn't even completely aware of how he sensed things—he just did. He paused outside the door, gripped his cane tightly, then gathered up all the doubts, the apprehension, and any stray negative thoughts rolling around in his head, and carefully tucked them away in a far corner of his mind, replacing them with a slightly forced smile and an upbeat tone to his voice as he entered. "Sweetie? Is that you?"


End file.
